The sign is new, and contrasts strangely with the tangled growth behind it. Blue and russet and metallic gold are not colors normally seen beside the roads of the Florida Panhandle.

"John David Patten Community Park", the sign proclaims.

A rutted track runs perpendicular to the blacktop highway. Pale sand beckons us through spindly pines and a few cypress trees. Tangles of grapevine and catbrier drape from the treetops, winding into ragged thickets of saw palmetto. I've always wondered how DeSoto and his sweating soldiers managed to get through such scratchy, stubborn, solid greenery.

Abruptly, the tangles end. John David Patten Community Park stretches out to our right; in front of us shines a new chain link fence. Inside it lurks a vast, cylindrical concrete tank with a domed top -- pumping station, perhaps? -- and its next-door neighbor, a water tower. Tower it does, three times the height of the teenaged pines. "Park" appears to be an afterthought: "We've got to clear out the area for that tower anyway, might as well do something with it."

Shining steel legs form the tower, holding the pale green reservoir up into glaring sunshine. It looks a little like a giant, newly harvested onion perched on legs intended for something else. The steel tubing is not much smaller in diameter than the pine trees, and the trees are almost as regularly spaced and engineered-looking as the tubes.

Gone are the intricate nets of vine, the palmetto and understory shrubs that whisper of life and lushness and wildness. Beneath these pine trees the ground is almost bare. The trees look exposed and vulnerable -- like an army of naked, skinny people standing in formation.

My companion says, with an edge of contempt, "Not much of a park, is it?"

We turn our back to the tank and tower. A tiny, neat wooden building with a peaked roof and its name, "Restrooms", sits on our right, a pale green island lapped by glaring new concrete. Bright blue "Handicapped" signs mark two parking spaces in front of it, with ramps. Beyond the restrooms, the concrete path continues, in carefully "natural" curves, to a log-built picnic shelter with brown asphalt-shingled roof.

Another blue-and-russet-and-gold sign on the edge of the concrete at the picnic shelter informs us that John David Patten was born in 1983 and died in 2005. He was a law enforcement officer, shot dead in the performance of his duty. This raw, unlovely place is dedicated to his memory.

I notice winding, mulched paths leading out among the spindly trees. Along the paths are plastic signboards which give brief synopses, with pictures, of the flora and fauna of the region. An open, rectangular area near the picnic shelter reveals sprinkler heads above bare mulch; looking closer I see that perennials have been planted here, the kind that attract butterflies when they are in bloom.

John David Patten must have been a popular guy, I'm thinking. Perhaps his family, working through their grief, planned and bulldozed and built what is here, then gave it to their town. Or maybe his death helped this little community come together, to realize that knowing one's neighbors is important and to do something about that. Parks are common ground on which we can find common ground with one another.

But, will we? Will anyone really make the effort to come to this place? Will they meet any neighbors if they do? I suspect the concept of "community" has been smothered by thick, modern insulation of television, automobiles and mega stores. We retain enough collective memory that we will act "in community" during a crisis. But the true test of community is what we do after the vines are cleared and the concrete poured and the shingles nailed.

I hope that the people of this small community will use their park, that they will walk the paths and keep the grasping vines from reclaiming this memorial patch. I envision a day when the butterflies dance among bright flowers, children race each other among sturdy, full-grown trees, and grownups greet one another by name beneath the sheltering roof.

Before the gold on these new signs has tarnished, I hope this park will indeed become a place of community.

Early on in our acquaintance, D. insisted on our doing the "Please Understand Me" personality typing quiz.  I thought it was interesting, and went along.  According to the test, we are almost perfect opposites -- which is supposed to be, counterintuitive though it is, a good thing.

I also scored high on "judgemental".  Not usually considered a good thing, at least not by those affected by it.  Including me.

And, twice in the past two days, I have been asked for directions, to destinations with which I am familiar.  Yet both times, after the requester drove away, I realized that my information had been less than helpful.  Not entirely wrong; they wouldn't get lost.  But  my info wouldn't get them to where they were going unless they asked someone else along the way.

Last night I attended my home group of AA, for the first time in quite a while.  I was reminded, gently as always, that I am not in charge of my life, and especially not in charge of anyone else's life.  That's my Higher Power's business.  I am merely the instrument,  trying to be helpful to others, and grateful for the incredible gifts I've been given.

These disparate thoughts coalesced this morning as I walked Daisy:  I tend to be judgemental, giving people advice on how they "should" do things, or silently shaking my head at the way they're conducting themselves.  Yet, I don't seem able to give very good directions to other people.  So why don't I leave that alone, let H.P. do the judging and directing, and just do the best I can to live my own life?

Good advice.  I think I'll take it.

". . . . Add another 1.8 degrees and as many as 2 billion people could be without water and about 20 percent to 30 percent of the world’s species near extinction. Also, more people start dying because of malnutrition, disease, heat waves, floods and droughts—all caused by global warming. That would happen around 2050, depending on the level of greenhouse gases from the burning of fossil fuels. . . . . "

I've just read about the newest-released report on global warming, that latest of the scientific fads.

Now, don't get me wrong:  I believe that the exponential increase in humans, and human activity, have wreaked havoc on this planet, particularly in the last fifty years.  I have no trouble believing that temperatures are rising.  I suspect there is a lot of truth in the scientists' warnings of horrible disasters as the earth warms.

But I remember Paul Erlich and the overpopulation doomsayers of twenty-plus years ago.  By 2007, according to them, horrible consequences of uncontrolled human breeding would be unfolding.    My favorite commentary on this is a New Yorker cartoon showing people standing on miniscule squares, clear to the horizon.  A business-suited man is speaking to the woman in the next square: "I'm prepared to make you an outstanding offer for your square."  China, in fact, did change its ways in an effort to curb population growth. I've seen several articles in the past year warning that China will soon be a nation of horny young men without enough women to go around. 

In other words, everything has consequences.   The more we learn about ourselves, and the world, and the universe, the more potential disasters we discern.  In other words, science has found a new falling sky to cry about, a la Chicken Little.

Fact is, people --as a species, anyway -- are expected to survive global warming right along with the cockroaches. 

And the fact is that the primary culprits in this global warming debacle are America and Americans.  But, according to our leaders, America is always right, always on the side of the underdog, always willing to do whatever it takes to make the world a better place.  Yeah, right -- that's why we invaded Iraq, to make the world a better place.

I, personally, believe we invaded Iraq so that our economy would "recover". So that  most Americans could keep their SUVs rolling.  So that our position as consumers of more than half the world's collective resources by one fifth of its population could remain unchallenged.    If we, as a nation, are willing to send sons and daughters to die so we can maintain our present way of life,   what makes anybody believe we'll change our ways so that a couple hundred non-human species can live, so that a couple hundred thousand humans won't die of thirst or starvation? 

" . . . . 'The worst stuff is not going to happen because we can’t be that stupid,'  said Harvard University oceanographer James McCarthy, who was a top author of the 2001 version of this report. 'Not that I think the projections aren’t that good, but because we can’t be that stupid.' . . . . "

Sorry James.  I disagree.

When I bought this house, I knew from the bright green parallel lines of grass, and the feeling of walking on a bog in the yard, that the septic system was in dubious health.  The guy I bought it from seemed amazed to hear that a septic tank needs to be cared for; he assured me that it hadn't been pumped in the 20 years he'd owned the house and had given no trouble. But the house was going from seven people to one, I figured, and it should be okay for a while. In fact, I have had no trouble with it in the almost three years I've been here.  

I grew up with septic systems -- both functioning and not -- so I know that a tank must be pumped periodically.  I remember my  parents' edict during The Time of The Failing Drainfield:  "If it's yellow, let it mellow.  If it's brown, flush it down."  I don't want to have to live like that again.  So, it is time to have the tank pumped.

Thursday morning I played hookey from class and work,  waiting for the Checkered Flag Septic Service to show at 9:30; they finally got there at 10:30.  Found the tank, uncovered the lid (buried nearly two feet deep) and after banging away on it with their big spud, got it to move and pulled it up.  The tank was . . . .  F.U.L.L.  Right to the top; it's a wonder I didn't have stuff backing up into the house; I probably would have in another few weeks.  No roots, though, thank God.

They got their hoses out, started to pump it out, and with a horrible noise, the pump on their truck tore up.  Somebody managed to remember to close the valve, so the contents of the truck didn't run back into my tank (and yard, and neighborhood!).  Apparently some connection with the PTO had broken.  They requested duct tape (I guess it really does work for everything!), but I had none. They used wire ties (?!?) to do a temporary fix, but decided against running the pump again until they found and installed a replacement part, whatever it was.

So, I have a hole in my yard about half the size needed to bury a greyhound (I'm an expert on dog graves); they did replace the lid so nothing could fall in.  I'll leave the check on the gate for them this morning, in hopes they'll get back today and finish the job.  I think they're honest fellows.  I hope so.

And when I know that I have 1,000 gallons of empty septic tank to fill up, I'm going to wash a load of not-very-dirty clothes, just for the heckofit!